As workers, we spend our holiday covered in a variety of condiments, mainly mustard. We chastise the customers who order hot tea. We answer the question, "Are you Irish?" a dozen times, each with the same answer (mine being, "I look the part, but no..."). We gulp water between soup runs or while the Guinness settles. We desperately await the elusive final table. We run... and run... and run. We set the records for fastest times eating pizza on a loading dock. We contemplate whether it's worth three to five in the slammer to prove to the customer that he or she isn't always right. We work through the nausea at the thought of seeing another corned beef and cabbage. We curse the walk-ins who blankly say, "I didn't think we needed a reservation." We arrange an 8-top, turn it to a 4-top, then back to an 8-top, only to make it a 6-top, all before anyone ever sits down. We salute each other with a traditional shift's-end shot which quickly leads to a staff-wide buzz from lack of food, dehydration, and overwhelming exhaustion. We inevitably make it through.
Despite my ranting, the Kinsale Inn had a great St. Patrick's Day. I'm sure that as time passes our memories will blur and we'll remember the day as happy.
Scott twirling his leprechaun tails before the madness began
The crowd mid-afternoon (notice the daylight outside the "porthole" on the back wall), already deep enough to require throwing 'bows...
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